


there’s something about it (i’m weaker without it)

by brothermine, humanveil



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Episode: s03e01 The Empty Hearse, M/M, Season/Series 03
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-27
Updated: 2019-08-27
Packaged: 2020-09-27 23:56:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,125
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20416457
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/brothermine/pseuds/brothermine, https://archiveofourown.org/users/humanveil/pseuds/humanveil
Summary: Caring is not an advantage, he says. And hadn’t he learnt that the hard way.





	there’s something about it (i’m weaker without it)

Mycroft gets to enjoy the comfort of his bed for mere minutes before he hears the lock, the door, the familiar cadence of Sherlock’s step. Knows instantly that he hasn’t used the key Mycroft had given him, all those years ago. Knows Sherlock is far too fond of the drama breaking in entails to ever be that easy. 

He sighs and sits up, reaches for the lamp. The light is low, soft. More of a dusting. It’s too late for anything more, and it’s not as if Sherlock needs it, anyway. He knows the way to the bed. Knows it more than he has any right to. 

The door clicks, Sherlock’s lithe figure slipping inside. He’s still too thin, Mycroft thinks, as he watches the coat fall to the floor, but that’s to be expected, too, he supposes. The Serbians _had_ had their fun. 

Shoes are next. Then the blazer. Trousers. Shirt, unbuttoned slightly but left on. Sherlock is silent as he reaches for the duvet, and Mycroft watches as he grasps the corner. Pulls it back. Says, “What are you doing?” like he’s meant to: long suffering, a heavy exhale. He wonders if Sherlock can tell that it’s mostly for show. He’s been expecting this, after all. If he’s honest. Though he hadn’t thought it’d be tonight. Not when he’d only just escaped their parents; the bustling heart of a city, tourists with too many questions. 

“Bored,” Sherlock says, simple. Mycroft takes it to mean _alone_. Lonely. It usually does. Usually did, before. _Before_. 

Sherlock shifts, the sheets rustling. Mycroft settles on his back. Waits three, four, five seconds before Sherlock moves closer: nestles there, on his side, knee nudging Mycroft’s legs and face buried in his brother’s shoulder. Six, seven, eight seconds before Mycroft gives in. Lifts his arm, reaches out. His fingers play at the hem of Sherlock’s shirt as Sherlock moves closer, still. Breath hitting the side of Mycroft’s neck: warm and damp, steady and tangible. His hand slips, up and under. Over scarred flesh: broken and bruised but healing. No sign of infection, thankfully, but still. Still. 

He should have intervened sooner. 

“Solved your case,” Sherlock murmurs, and he’s really only filling space. Biding time. 

“Yes, I know,” Mycroft drawls. He’d received the update. Of course he had. He exhales: slow. Draws a line across an unmarked area of Sherlock’s skin. Gentle. Tender. Adds, “Well done.”

“Hmm.” Sherlock burrows, arm circling Mycroft’s middle, mouth pressed to his brother’s neck. He _had_ always liked it, Mycroft thinks. The praise. He was predictable that way. 

Predictable in many ways, Mycroft amends, when fingers press to his abdomen. They brush over his pyjama bottoms, fingers cold but warming against the exposed sliver of skin. “Want you,” Sherlock whispers: soft, almost broken, closer to an exhale. He presses closer—closer, closer. Always closer. Shifts so Mycroft can feel the half-hard cock against his thigh, so wet lips can part against skin: a tongue licking at salt, pressure light but there. Definitely there. 

Mycroft’s eyes flutter shut, arousal pooling in the depths of his gut. It’s a familiar warmth, though one he rarely indulges in. Certainly not recently. Not recently at all. 

_Alone_, he thinks again. The both of them. He probably more so than Sherlock, and yet it’s his brother who’s prone to bursts of loneliness. Who does _this_. Breaks into his house just to see him, crawls under his covers, under his skin, into his heart; into the Sherlock-shaped hole that stays perfectly in tact no matter how many times Mycroft tries to destroy it. _Caring is not an advantage, _he says. And hadn’t helearnt that the hard way. 

Mycroft extracts his hand. Uses it to take hold of Sherlock’s hair. His fingers twist in the strands, almost enough to hurt anyone with a lower threshold for pain. He guides Sherlock away from his neck, pulls him back only enough to kiss him. He tastes cigarettes and tea and what could be champagne, but mostly there’s just Sherlock. Sherlock: safe and secure. Sherlock, within reach. Sherlock, beside him. Finally. Finally._ God. _

Mycroft_ has _been waiting for this. 

Some careful manoeuvring, and Sherlock is above him: knees planted either side of Mycroft’s thighs, his eyes half-lidded and dark with want as he rocks, gentle. Slow at first, to drag it out. Let pleasure sink its claws into the both of them: overwhelming and beautiful and so unlike anything Sherlock has experienced these last two years. Guilt nags, but Mycroft swallows it down to mull over later. Chooses instead to take hold of Sherlock’s waist and aid him: up and down and up and down and up and down until they’re both breathless; hands pushing at fabric until there’s skin on skin. Friction, nice and hot. 

Sherlock bends to kiss him. It’s wet and sloppy and filled with teeth and tongue, but Mycroft doesn’t care. Not here. Not now. Sherlock gasps: a whine caught in his throat. Mycroft feels an answering groan press against his teeth, his brother’s blatant desire a sure-fire way to make him lose control. He can’t explain it, the way Sherlock makes him feel. The way he sets Mycroft’s body on fire. His brother is the expert addict, but Mycroft imagines that this is not far off. This fixation. This... _obsession_. 

God help him. 

He comes with a cry, his brother’s name caught in his teeth. Sherlock follows not long after, their come mixing together on Mycroft’s stomach, his shirt, his sheets. Sherlock seems to go boneless above him: sated and panting, eyes content in the afterglow. He sinks down. Catches his breath. Mycroft attempts to do the same. 

“I want to stay,” Sherlock says after, once they’ve cleaned up, when they’re lying together again, and there’s a hint of hesitancy, there. Underlining his voice. Mycroft’s first thought is that to be tentative is ridiculous. It’s usually Sherlock who leaves, usually Mycroft who wishes for hours or days or weeks spent in bed together to be a possibility. His second is that the request is a clear indicator of the state his brother is in. Is that perhaps it’s worse than Mycroft had anticipated. 

No matter. He’ll handle it. _Has to. _

He shuts off the lamp, his fingers finding Sherlock’s hair once again: the pressure light, this time. A tenderness Mycroft often conceals leaking through every crack it can find. He kisses Sherlock again, though it’s nothing at all like their previous actions. Devoid of heat but heavy with a different brand of desire: lips against his brother’s brow, the words, _So stay_, a quiet murmur amongst their breathing. 

Sleep claims them both eventually, but when Mycroft wakes, early and rested, it’s to find Sherlock still tucked against his side. 


End file.
